


Soapwort

by erebones



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, bathtime, kind of, not very explicit sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 12:28:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He picks a flower head from its stem and brings it to his nose, crushing the petals between his fingers. Soapwort, though it is known by other labels. His father grew it in his garden, and called his wife “Bouncing Bet” after one such name. His mother in turn called Bilbo her Sweet William, and scrubbed his hair and ears with it every night at bathtime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soapwort

They take their rest at the base of the Carrock, scattered here and there among smaller boulders that have fallen from its enormous height, swallowed by grass and wildflowers. After their ordeal – Bilbo supposes the others would call it an “adventure,” but it’s still too close to be anything but terrifying – Thorin is content to let them rest for a while. Bilbo collapses face-first onto the grass, too tired even to miss his bedroll. There he lays until Kíli nudges him gently with his hand and whispers, “Bilbo. There’s a shallow ford a little ways away – we’re going to have a wash if you want to join.”

Bilbo rolls over, blinking sleep from his eyes. He feels as if he’s been awake for days and days – he supposes he has, really – but Kíli’s offer is telling. After all this time, after nights around a shared campfire and days spent trekking across miles and miles of cruel and beautiful land, Bilbo realizes: he is a part of the Company, now. Something has shifted between him and the others. Perhaps it was his foolish attempt to save Thorin’s life, or their leader’s sanctioning embrace. Maybe it was just the passage of time. Whatever the reason, Bilbo finds himself getting pulled to his feet and clapped on the back, and follows the others to the stream.

He is tired, yes, but not so tired he doesn’t recognize familiar flora when he sees it. A pale purple sprinkled with white, spraying up from tall green stems, peeks out from behind a weathered crag of rock. He peels away from the end of the group, noisy and roughhousing in spite of their low energy, and sneaks into the underbrush.

His suspicions are confirmed as he picks a flower head from its stem and brings it to his nose, crushing the petals between his fingers. Soapwort, though it is known by other labels. His father grew it in his garden, and called his wife “Bouncing Bet” after one such name. His mother in turn called Bilbo her Sweet William, and scrubbed his hair and ears with it every night at bathtime.

His heart aches a little as he gets down onto his knees and digs his fingers into the dirt, pulling up a few roots. The heady smell is familiar and calming, reminding him of his home, and a sweeter time when things were simple.

Bilbo stands again, brushing off his knees, and realizes his little detour has taken him right back to camp, where Bofur is poking at the fire despondently with a stick. Surprised – he hadn't missed his presence among the rest – Bilbo steps out into the little open space they’d claimed as their campground.

“I thought you’d gone with the others.”

Bofur looks up at the sound of his voice, brown eyes warming easily. “I could say the same of you. Change your mind about a bath?”

“No,” Bilbo says, shifting his weight nervously. “I just saw some soapwort, and thought I’d –” He stops, reevaluates. Here is Bofur, all by himself, just as tired and worn as the rest of them, and smelling of oily smoke and goblin tunnels to boot. Why isn’t he with the others? He licks his lips, but the answer escapes him. “I thought I’d see if you wanted to share,” he finishes, holding out the earth-covered roots.

“Soapwort, eh?” Bofur repeats, leaning closer to get a better look. “What are you trying to say, Master Hobbit?”

Bilbo stutters and stammers out an apology before catching the twinkle in Bofur’s eye. The dwarf laughs heartily and drags himself to his feet, favoring one leg. “No harm done, Bilbo. I’ll gladly accept your offer, as you were kind enough to give it.”

They make their way to the ford, but somehow end up around the riverbend from the others, out of sight but not quite out of hearing. Splashing and laughter and deep, chattering voices wend their way over the water, but Bilbo and Bofur remain quiet, stripping their weary, soiled clothing and leaving it piled on the bank before plunging into the ice cold water with muffled yelps.

Bathing is heavenly. Bilbo scrubs his hair three times before he’s satisfied that all the grit of Gollum’s cave is out, and he ducks beneath into the frigid runoff to rinse, feeling his hair smooth and soft under his fingers. He also takes special care with certain parts of his anatomy that haven’t seen a bath in far too long. Beside him, Bofur does the same, even taking the end of a root to his beard and drooping mustache, scrubbing until he looks as if he’s gone prematurely grey with lather.

Afterward, they climb wearily onto the bank and lay in the sun, gathering strength and drying off before they tackle their rank clothing. The sun is warm and pleasant on their naked bodies. Normally such an activity would be unthinkable, but Bilbo can’t spare the energy to be self-conscious. Instead he rests his hands on his belly, trying not to think about  how he can feel his ribs uncomfortably close beneath his skin.

“Why didn’t you go with the others?” he ventures at last, hazy-eyed and heavy with lassitude.

“Too tired. Didn’t think I could walk that far,” Bofur admits.

Bilbo is rather touched he said so. Dwarves are terribly close-mouthed about their hardships, a stoicism he sometimes envied as their journey took its toll on his soft,  untested body. “I saw you limping.” He hopes he isn’t crossing a line. “Were you… injured, in the battle?”

“Not the battle, nay – not this last one, anyway. I landed on it wrong, in the goblin tunnels.”

Bilbo struggles upright, staring over at him. He’d been careful not to, before, but this merits closer attention. There is nothing obviously wrong with his leg, no blood or bone breaking the skin, but other things catch his attention. He notices that Bofur’s hair is loose, spilling over the bright grass in tendrils of wet black-brown, and that he is pleasantly stocky and muscular under his clothes, with a mat of dark curls across his chest and down his belly to his (generous, by Bilbo’s admittedly inexpert eye) privates, all gleaming with dewdrops of water.

“Why –” His throat has become dry, inexplicably. He tries again. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”

“It was bearable,” Bofur grunts, pushing himself upright. He rubs his knee, which is swollen and starting to purple with bruises. “And it isn’t broken, or else I wouldn’t have been able to run and climb.”

Bilbo remembers the descent of the Carrock only vaguely – the adrenaline of the orc attack and the escape via eagle had worn off by then – but he does have a dim impression of Bofur bringing up the rear, far slower than any of the others. “Gandalf said we’ll be stopping for a rest soon, with someone he knows,” he says carefully, trying to be helpful and certain that he’s failing miserably.

But Bofur smiles at him, warm and dimpled, and Bilbo’s heart fizzles right down to his toes.

“I – I wanted to apologize. Again, I mean.”

Bofur’s dark brows curl with puzzlement. “Whatever for?”

“For what I said in the cave, earlier today – well, earlier. However long it’s been.”

“My dear fella,” Bofur laughs, weariness melting away to laughter, “There’s no need for that sort o’ nonsense.” He reaches out to ruffle Bilbo’s wet hair, and something hot and bright crackles down his spine. “I am so pleased you are staying, after all.”

“Me too,” Bilbo says, blushing. “I mean, I suppose everything turned out all right, in the end.”

“It did indeed.” Bofur is regarding him with fondness, and Bilbo’s not sure he can remember how to breathe properly. “Are you all right, lad?”

“Fine,” he whispers, and then, horribly, his eyes drop to Bofur’s lap. He blushes bright red and looks away.

“Hey now.” There is a touch on his cheek, rough-surfaced but gentle. “You’re not so bad yourself, you know.”

“It’s… inappropriate,” Bilbo says thickly, waving a shaking hand between them. Never could he have imagined this conversation taking place. The very idea burns his insides up – whether from nerves or actual shame he isn’t certain. “I-I mean, we’re not even of the same _species_ –”

“And what has that to do with ought?” Bofur murmurs. His hand leaves Bilbo’s cheek only to curl around the back of his neck.

Bilbo leans into it unconsciously, then consciously, leaning until his nose is tucked against one drooping mustache. “Truly? It doesn’t matter?”

“And why should it, pray? Have you no heard the tale of Beren and Lúthien Tinúviel? Were they not of different races?”

“They were,” Bilbo admits, content to rest against Bofur and feel his lilting voice rumble between their bodies.

“An’ they’re immortalized in song and story. Why should we not have th’ same? Because we’re not of fair and noble face?”

“No indeed,” Bilbo agrees, somewhat muddled. His weariness, and the warmth and the clean scent of Bofur’s skin, is making thinking straight a rather difficult task. “Although, I’d rather not be immortalized, if it’s all the same to you. Hobbits are simple folk.”

Bofur chuckles. “I don’t promise immortality, my dear hobbit, but I cannot promise not to write songs. It’s what dwarves _do_.”

“And then you sing them,” Bilbo adds, with just a touch grumbling, “loudly, and with a lot of damage to cutlery.”

“I’ll just play my pipe for you then, shall I?” Bofur murmurs, and pulls away long enough to produce his silver instrument from its secret leather pocket in his jerkin. Bilbo slumps against his shoulder and fades in and out of sleep, listening to the soft, mellow notes as Bofur plays for him.

Gradually their hair dries, Bilbo’s in a ball of frizz and Bofur’s in long, lank strands down his back. Then he sets down his pipe and reaffixes the braids before taking Bilbo in his arms and laying down with him. Bilbo’s blood stirs, and he grips Bofur’s shoulders as the dwarf kisses him, lips moist and swollen from playing and tasting faintly of metal and soap.

“The others –” Bilbo starts, for it is well into the morning and the rest have surely noticed their absence by now. But Bofur only kisses him deeper, chasing away all thought of protest as they press against one another, growing warm and flushed and dewy with clean sweat.

Bilbo soon learns more than he ever thought he’d know about Bofur. He learns, for instance, that his hand is plenty large enough to wrap around both their pricks comfortably, and that there is nothing quite so erotic as the catch of his callouses on tender skin. He also discovers that Bofur’s mouth is far too talented for his own good, and the soft scrape of facial hair on Bilbo’s thighs and bollocks is more than enough to tip him over the edge, spilling hot and desperate over Bofur’s tongue. Then, like a great cat, the dwarf licks him clean with the warm flat of his tongue until Bilbo is squirming from overstimulation.

“Let me,” he gasps, reaching, and Bofur lies still in the warm grass and groans, heartfelt, as Bilbo takes him tenderly in hand and brings him to completion.

They rest for a little while, curled up together in a peaceful quiet. Then, beginning to feel the tug of their companions and their camp, they wash their clothing in the icy water. They dress in damp smallclothes and thin white shirts, carrying the remainder back to camp where they spread it out on the hot rocks to dry. Most of the others are asleep, snoozing in their respective niches; only old Balin is awake, smoking his pipe reflectively. He gives them a nod and promptly ignores them, for which Bilbo is grateful. Uncomfortable questions can be saved for another day.

Their weariness is complete. Bofur lays down in a patch of thick grass sprinkled with clover. Bilbo curls against his side, mindful of his injured leg, and together they fall into a well-deserved slumber.


End file.
